The B Word

Can we talk about something real? I mean something so scandalous that even though there are dozens of blogs about it, it never seems to make it to the mainstream. I'm talking about Breasts. Boobs.
I don't care what you call them (though I have always thought calling them "girls" or "twins" sounded a bit creepy,  like they weren't part of me) but they are a fact of life as a woman.  I have been busty all my life,  thanks to my father's gene pool, and it has been mostly just inconvenient, sometimes painfully so. One of the things I most looked forward to with weight loss was losing some of the excess baggage on my chest. I'm short, and though I am curvy, my frame is medium to smallish. Carrying those around is heavy lifting.
Then I hit my 30s. Gravity kills. Now they aren't just heavy,  they're defying all attempts to keep them in place. I have lost about 35 lbs and not even one smidgen of that was from my boobs. It's frustrating.  Who do I have to kill to drop a cup size?
I waz seriously considering surgery until I lost my job. In the meantime these things still need containment and a lot of support.
Ever been bra shopping at a flea market? That's what bra shopping is like for me ALL the time.  There are maybe 3 brands that offer my size (well sort of) and the ones I can afford fit halfway and the rest I'd have to sell a kidney to buy. For a country that loves boobs, bigger the better,  nobody seems to remember that they need proper care and support just as much as our smaller sisters.
And before any of my friends with less than ample cleavage tries to kill me, wait. Go get a couple of five pound weight plates. Strap them to your chest so that they rely on your back, neck and shoulders to bear the weight.  Carry that around 24/7, you will beg to get that shit off your body.
In the UK apparently it's not shameful to wear a larger cup size than DD. They make E, F, and G and they aren't all beige or ugly.  So from now until I get a job where the insurance will pay for surgery,  I'm buying my bras from across the pond. Bali, Olga and all their brethren can kiss my ass.

Here's to the ta-tas.

Confession

Bless me, friends, for I have sinned...it has been...ok, mostly I don't do confession. Largely because I'm not Catholic. And for reasons. But I still have to hang my head and admit the truth.

I don't cook.

I know, right?

I've been working as a professional chef for about 6 years, give or take. I don't cook for myself. My theory is that I spend my whole day cooking for strangers. When I come home, the kitchen is the last place I want to be. The only exception is when my hubby comes home for a bit and then I will trouble myself to feed him something, though I rarely eat myself.

"Shoemaker's wives go barefoot, doctor's wives die young and chef's husbands go hungry..."

That was the case until recently. I lost my job. I was laid off. I am, as of now, no longer a working chef. I'm trying not to freak out. Much. Since I am trying to point my career in a different direction, and no longer seeking food service employment, I am hoping that I will begin to enjoy cooking again.

Here's the second confession.

I have no idea how to feed myself.

I mean, I know how to cook. I know how to shop. But planning meals, and organizing a shopping trip so that I not only have something to cook when I'm hungry but don't go broke doing it?

Yeah...I may have been absent that year.

But there's no time like the present to learn. And if busy moms with 2 kids and jobs manage to do it, surely one unemployed college graduate can manage to put together some kind of plan. It seems like the best way of making sure that the weight I have lost doesn't come back to haunt me. So I'm going to hit the internets and crack on with it. Because proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance.

I am absolved.